Vanishing Acts (17 page)

“Okay, that may be true, but it doesn't mean he'd kidnap him,” I said.

“It doesn't mean he didn't,” Beatrix replied.

“I guess you have a point. But how do we know the mail carrier isn't guilty? Maybe
she's
jealous of Seth's career, too.”

Sonya nodded and added “mail carrier” to her notes, followed by three gigantic question marks.

“I don't really think the . . . never mind. Look, even if Brandon
is
guilty, we're still not done. We still need to figure out where Seth is. And, you know—rescue him.”

“This is hard,” said Beatrix.

I turned to Sonya. “Can you tell me why you think Brandon is innocent?”

“Sure. It's because he's sweet and he dresses really
cute. His shirt had a collar and it was tucked into his jeans and he wore a nice belt,” she replied.

“I don't get it,” I said.

“Think about it.” Sonya tapped her forehead with one finger.

I looked at Beatrix, who held her head in her hands in frustration.

I turned to Lucy, I mean Lulu, to get her opinion, but was surprised to find that she wasn't sitting next to me anymore.

“Where's Lulu?” I asked.

“Who?” asked Sonya. “Oh—she's over there.” Sonya pointed to the next table, where Lulu sat with Finn and his best friends, Red and Otto.

They were all laughing about something. No, scratch that. Lulu wasn't merely laughing—she was hysterical. I'm talking red-faced and shoulders shaking.

It's not like Lulu has to sit with me at lunch every day. But she
has
been sitting with me every day—up until ten minutes ago. So what was up?

“I wonder what she thinks about Brandon,” I said.

“She's been pretty distracted lately,” said Beatrix. “I don't think she's given it much thought.”

“We tried to get her to question Brandon with us, but she was too busy,” Sonya said. “It's like she doesn't even care about Seth Ryan.”

Sonya was right, but that wasn't my biggest concern. Lucy acted like she didn't even care about me.

But before I could figure out what was going on with my current best friend, my ex–best friend showed up.

Her name is Ivy Jeffries, and usually she doesn't acknowledge me in public. Or in private. It's like she fears “unpopularity” is contagious. Except she must've taken antibiotics over the weekend, because now she stood over me with this huge smile on her face. “Hey, Maggie. Is it true?” she asked, sitting down next to me like we were still best buds.

“Is what true?”

She lowered her voice and leaned in close. “You know—the whole you-and-Seth-Ryan-being-a-couple thing.”

I looked at Beatrix and Sonya, expecting them to blow my cover, but they stayed silent, watching us like we were the stars in some exciting new Web series—
Best Friends/Worst Enemies: Drama in the Lunchroom.

Ivy waited, but I didn't know what to say to her. Obviously she was only here because she thought I was dating the most famous movie star in the world.

And I could've told her it was a big misunderstanding.

But at the same time, I didn't have to.

I grinned at her with the same sort of condescending grin she gave me all the time. Like when she'd first
decided she didn't want to be friends with me but hadn't bothered telling me about it. Not even after I sat down with her and her new, better friends at lunch that first day of sixth grade. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. It took almost an entire week of me sitting with them—wondering why they were ignoring me—to figure it out. She'd moved on and didn't even have the decency to tell me about it. Not that I'm bitter. (Anymore.)

“I can't really talk about my relationship with Seth Ryan to the general public,” I told her.

Her eyes got wide. “But I can keep a secret. You know—just between friends . . .”

“It's just too complicated,” I said with an exaggerated shrug as I packed up my lunch. “You understand, Ivy. Right?”

All the books on Cindy Singer were checked out of both the school and local libraries, so I'm lucky I still had the biography my mom tried to push on me last month. Especially considering my report on Cindy Singer was due in eighteen hours.

That night I cracked open the book and took notes as I read about Cindy's life and work.

Born in Hampstead, suburb of London
Studied at Goldsmiths—an art school in London
Nominated for Turner Prize—some big modern art award
Has a sculpture on display at the Tate, which is a famous
gallery in London

According to the book, Cindy's artwork all revolved around a number of themes—one of those themes literally being the number three.

Her first real show consisted of gigantic threes constructed out of different materials: glass blown into the shape of a three and filled with sand in three colors, a three made out of three pieces of rope woven together, and a neon three. Also, three statues of the number one, tied together with three pieces of yellow string—because yellow is the third color on the color spectrum.

The book also had a few pictures of the Hansel and Gretel house exhibit Lulu had mentioned. One thing she didn't tell us, though, was that the house was constructed with only three sides.

Despite the ants having eaten part of Cindy's sculpture, this piece seemed to launch her into a major fairytale kick. After the Hansel and Gretel house, she created a giant installation piece based on princesses, with three poison apples, three glass slippers, and only six of the seven dwarves: Happy, Sleepy, Doc, Dopey, Sneezy, and Grumpy. Not three, but certainly divisible by three.

She also had a show where she took pictures of people dressed up as the three main characters of “Little Red Riding Hood”—the girl, the grandmother, and the wolf.

Once I read about an installation based on “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” I figured I had enough material to write my report, so I opened my laptop and started a new document.

But as I tried to connect Cindy's current installation—the two tree houses—to her earlier work, I found that something didn't make sense. Everything about Cindy Singer's art told me there should be a third tree house somewhere in the park. And also some kind of connection to a fairy tale.

When our teacher asked if there was a third tree house last week, Cindy had said no. But now that I knew more about her, something seemed fishy.

Cindy was clearly a very successful and well-established artist, used to working on her own terms. So why wouldn't she create three tree houses? And what did they have to do with fairy tales? Unless she was changing direction and the monk parakeets in Prospect Park were her new inspiration. Somehow I doubted it.

I closed my eyes and conjured up the houses in my mind. One was made of bricks and one was made of sticks. They were cool in their own right, but I couldn't help but feel like they also seemed incomplete.

Also, what type of fairy tale involved tree houses? Or even three houses? The answer was in some back corner of my brain that I couldn't quite access.

I scanned my bookshelf and then Finn's, searching for our old book of fairy tales. And then I remembered we sold it at our last stoop sale. So I grabbed my jacket and headed to the Community Bookstore, which is just
around the corner. It's a musty old store with a stained red rug, a piano that no one's allowed to use, and a cat that likes to scratch children if they get too close.

They also have a decent kids' books section, which was all I really needed. I grabbed the first anthology of fairy tales I saw and sat down on one of their low chairs. I flipped to the table of contents and scanned the titles. “Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” “Cinderella,” “Sleeping Beauty,” “Little Red Riding Hood,” “The Ugly Duckling,” “The Frog Prince,” and “The Three Little Pigs.”

And “The Three Little Pigs.” That's it, exactly. I mean, obviously I knew the story—I'd heard it a gazillion and three times, but not lately. As I read, I realized I was on to something.

Each of the three pigs wanted to build a house of his own. The first pig made a house out of straw. The second pig made a house out of sticks. And the third pig made a house out of bricks.

I thought back to our morning in the park and pictured the house made out of bricks and the house made out of sticks.

And suddenly something clicked in my brain. Cindy
did
construct three tree houses. We'd seen the one made of sticks and the one made of bricks—and somewhere in the park was a third tree house. A secret tree house made out of straw.

But that's not all. I put the book away and raced home. Once in my room, I flipped through my Doggie Deets notebook, back to my early investigation of the dog-egger.

“The laughter came from above,” said Cassie.

“It's like it came from nowhere,” said Jane.

“I saw a guy in a black T-shirt appear from nowhere. It was like he was magical,” said Milton with the mohawk.

It made total sense that the house was built on Ninth Street. The house of sticks was at Grand Army Plaza; the house of bricks at Third Street. Continue south to the next park entrance, and you have Ninth Street. Obviously Cindy had built a third, straw house near Ninth Street.

I still didn't know who the egger was. But something told me I'd just found his or her hiding spot. I put on my jacket and headed for the front door, and that's when I ran into my mom, who was just coming home from work.

“Where are you going?” she asked as she set her briefcase down by the coatrack.

“Um, Lucy's,” I said.

“Doesn't she go by Lulu now?” asked my mom.

“Yeah—Lulu. I'm still getting used to it. But I really have to go.”

“Isn't it a little late for a school night?” asked Mom.

“I won't be gone long.”

I was halfway out the door when she said, “Before you go, can you give me your report on Cindy Singer? I think I'd like to read it while you're gone.”

I froze and turned around. “I'm not quite done with it yet, but—”

“Maggie, it's six o'clock on a school night and your report is due tomorrow. You're not leaving this house.”

I couldn't really argue with her logic—and I couldn't exactly tell her I needed to go to the park to find a straw house when it was already pretty dark out. Trudging back inside, I told her, “Okay. I'll finish that report now.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

Back in my room, I turned on my laptop and opened up my report.

I wrote about Cindy's life and work and her obsession with fairy tales and the number three. I wrote about the brick and stick houses being inspired by “The Three Little Pigs.” And I wrote that there must be a third house somewhere in the park—one made out of straw . . .

I was just printing my final draft when Finn came home.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Nowhere,” said Finn.

“Ah, I haven't been there in ages,” I replied. “How is nowhere these days?”

Finn answered me with a glare.

“Hey, can I have the alarm clock?” I asked.

“I thought the glowing green numbers kept you awake and made you think of aliens.”

“They do,” I said. “But know what's worse than being kept awake by a somewhat illogical and completely embarrassing fear of space invaders? Worrying that I'm going to oversleep because you keep hitting the snooze button. Anyway, I have to get up extra early tomorrow.”

“Fine.” Finn headed over to his side of the room and unplugged the clock. “Here.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don't mention it,” said Finn.

“Too late for that.”

Finn noticed my book on Cindy Singer. “Oh, can I borrow that?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “It's Mom's, and we're lucky she has it. The library had nothing.”

“Mind if I check out your report, too?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, closing my laptop. “I do.” I knew he'd peek as soon as I left our room, but I didn't care. I had bigger things to worry about.